


acciaccatura

by en passant (corinthian)



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Child Abuse, M/M, Sexual Abuse, weeping wednesday
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-11
Updated: 2014-12-11
Packaged: 2018-03-01 00:08:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2752247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/corinthian/pseuds/en%20passant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. Trowa and Quatre meet at music camp. Sometimes there's no happy ending.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> acciaccatura: crushing; i.e., a very fast grace note that is "crushed" against the note that follows and takes up no value in the measure

“You play beautifully,” his name is Quatre and he’s never shy with compliments. At first, Trowa thinks that he’s making fun of him. They only have two sections together, morning and afternoon rehearsal. Most of the string players stick to themselves, it’s an odd divide between the orchestra and band kids at the camp. Except during sanctioned dances, then everyone is inappropriately close, of course.

“Thanks, you too,” Trowa has learned to say. The first time he brushed Quatre’s compliment aside the other boy gave him a bewildered look. The second time he’d simply smiled, repeated the comment. It’s never the exact same thing — Quatre is clever, he’s good, too. He’s first chair of the second violins, which is an odd place for him, Trowa knows Quatre is good enough for first of first. And he really listens during rehearsal.

“Are you going to the dance?” Every three weeks, like clockwork, the camp had a dance. It was to allow the kids to mingle, supposedly, supervised. Girls and boys had separate cabins but Trowa honestly didn’t know why they bothered. Since the camp was in the woods by a lake it was all too easy for anyone to sneak through the trees. Not to mention girls who like girls, boys who liked boys, and those who weren’t picky. Someone else’s words, not his.

Trowa shrugs. Probably not. The last time he went to a dance it was crowded and someone spiked the punch with hot sauce which was apparently the height of deviancy for the kids at music camp. It wasn’t their fault. but most of them were nice kids and consequently got their kicks off of things like staying up a half an hour after dark. There were a few known troublemakers, bad apples and so forth, but Trowa couldn’t afford to get kicked out either. Summer camp was his three months away from home and he savored them.

“You could come with me.” Quatre is careful, very careful. He doesn’t ask Trowa, just leaves the question open and just like that Trowa falls a little for him.

“I could,” he agrees.

“I’d like it if you did.”

Trowa shrugs again, but he lets his eyes linger on Quatre. Quatre’s not bad looking, but he doesn’t look anything like the boys Trowa knows best, and nothing like the men that his father has over for private parties. Quatre has a delicate look of someone who hasn’t been touched, a soft smile that’s too welcoming. He looks fragile to Trowa, and it isn’t just because he’s shorter. Trowa thinks, it’s a lot like looking at a wounded deer, in a way. He doesn’t know exactly how wrong he is, but first, second, third impressions can often lead you astray.

“Sure.”

—

“When will you show us what your boy will do?” The men Mr. Barton has over, asked. Trowa sat, as he always did when they came over, on the ottoman in front of Mr. Barton’s chair. Mr. Barton’s legs framed the ottoman, and framed him and it was easy then for his father to lean forward, rest his chin on Trowa’s shoulder.

“He plays the flute beautifully.” Mr. Barton said. The men are disappointed, and Trowa felt vaguely annoyed. The flute had been his secret, for a few precious months until he had to ask for permission to go to camp. Then Mr. Barton had been all too thrilled to become involved in his lessons, too. “Go on, Trowa.”

Dutifully he got his flute. But he played The Entertainer instead of a concerto. Mr. Barton frowned, tsked.

“Now, don’t be cheeky, boy.” Smiled, affectionately, of course.

—

Quatre wasn’t like any of Trowa’s previous few friends, or his one boyfriend. Quatre cares about a lot of things. At the dance he cares that Trowa didn’t eat dinner and he cares about dancing to the slow songs together. It’s unusual, for Trowa, because he’s never been pulled along, not for dancing and food.

“Try this one,” Quatre beams, offers Trowa a small mini-quiche, “It’s awful.” He adds, grinning.

Trowa eats it then, because Quatre’s grin is just on this side of impish. It is awful. He chews and swallows it, though.

“Terrible.” He agrees.

They have to wear their stupid uniforms, of course. Trowa thinks it’s ridiculous, slow dancing in shorts and high dark blue knee socks, but Quatre seems charmed by it. He even runs his fingers across the collar of Trowa’s shirt, oddly seductively.

“You’re into music camp uniforms?” Trowa has to ask.

Quatre laughs, an easy going, truly amused laugh. “Depends, how do you feel about being out of them?” And Trowa is off-balance, again. Quatre, who had seemed like such a perfectly safe choice, gives him a wide cat-like smile that isn’t at all what he expected.

“I’m not a fan of them.”

“If we leave now we can claim the instrument closet before anyone else does.” Quatre’s words speak to experience of several dance nights spent sneaking away. The instrument closet was one of the only private places in the camp, the other being the shed behind the director’s cabin and no one wanted to use that.

Trowa lets Quatre pull him out of the dancehall and to the instrument closet, and he’s right, no one has it yet. They slide inside, shut the door, turn on the dim singular ceiling light and jam a music stand rack in the way. Quatre also produces a shoelace and ties the handle down.

“Extra assurance,” he says sweetly. “How much are you okay with?”

“I’ll suck you off,” Trowa offers.

“Only if you let me return the favor.”

Trowa imagines that he must have blinked so slow and wide that Quatre thought he might be drunk, because he leans in close and takes a delicate sniff.

“Punch wasn’t spiked, was it? Not to doubt you, but…”

“You don’t take advantage, I got it.” Trowa smirks then, sinks to his knees. Quatre is vocal, very vocal and affectionate. Even his fingers in Trowa’s hair are encouraging, soft, they tug in all the right ways. Trowa already knows that he’s very good, but when Quatre comes down his throat and then bends down to kiss at his face in a stunned, awkward, loving way it’s entirely different.

“You have the most talented mouth,” Quatre whispers, practically glowing in the dim light.

Trowa doesn’t say he’s heard that before, because then Quatre is gently kissing him on the mouth. And then the throat. And then Quatre lays Trowa down on his back, lifts his hips and it’s the oddest position that he’s ever been in for oral but everything Quatre does sends off a warning sign and then fill him with a warm shift of satisfied pleasure.

They ignore the first set of bangs on the instrument closet door and just lean on each other. Quatre trails his fingers through Trowa’s hair and Trowa’s sure, oddly, that he’s blushing.

—

He’d been told, his mouth was his best feature.

Mr. Barton, who’d adopted him five years ago, certainly agreed with the previous assessment. Called it Trowa’s real gift from God, would sometimes curl his fingers in Trowa’s hair affectionate-possessive and say, you could make angels weep and what you do to men, it’s beyond that.

Not being a talkative child, he hadn’t really gotten it. It had a little to do with when Mr. Barton would show him off. Tilt his face to the side and ask him to drop his lower lip, just enough so someone could push their thumb in.

Like that, just like that. Mr. Barton would say, smirk, and Mr. Barton’s business partners would all make anxious needy noises. Donkeys, Trowa thought, they sounded like donkeys. Or pigs. They would all gamble then, after each taking their turn to look Trowa over, blackjack or poker. Trowa would be bade to sit on Mr. Barton’s lap, stay still boy, and say nothing during the game.

Mr. Barton was not a very good poker player, but he was all right at blackjack.

—

The Monday before camp ends Trowa steals a boat. It’s not technically stealing stealing, since he doesn’t take the boat off camp premises but he does take it out of the shed when he isn’t supposed to and then he knocks on Quatre’s door.

“No one will know,” he reassures but he doesn’t have to, not really. Quatre looks all to eager and they drag it down to the quiet part of the lake, push it in and row out underneath the moon.

Kissing on the boat is awkward, and they almost capsize before they give up on kissing and Quatre just sits against Trowa.

“Are you coming again, next year?” Quatre asks.

“Maybe,” Trowa shrugs. “Only if I get another scholarship.”

He can’t see it, but Quatre flushes. He does see, and feel, Quatre’s fingers against his knee, idly tracing nervous patterns.

“Oh. I hope you can. I’ll be here next year — I’m going to try for the international program.”

“They’re doing France next year.” Trowa is almost wistful. But he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to make it. And, if he convinces himself, he won’t really care.

“To get my father to agree I’ll have to be first chair,” Quatre murmurs.

“You’re good enough to be first chair,” Trowa points out.

Quatre laughs, but it’s not happy. It’s a little sad and Trowa wishes he could see Quatre’s face and the boat rocks a little. He does see Quatre shake his head and hears, “Can I tell you a secret?”

“Yeah.”

“I never tried for first chair, because I wanted this to be just for me. I’m not supposed to be a musician, but I’m supposed to be good. During the school year all I do is business classes and etiquette classes. I’m supposed to follow in his footsteps and this was my private rebellion.”

So, Quatre was one of those nice kids, in a way. Rebelling by under performing. Trowa leans forward a little more, pulls Quatre closer to him.

“My dad’s not the same way, sorry. But it might be worth it, to go international?” He offers.

“Lucky,” Quatre sighs. “Choosing between being my own person and following my dreams… it’s just a power game in the end. One of the more tame ones, but every time I think about it I just get so upset…”

“So don’t think about it. We still have a week of camp left,” he tries to be reassuring, but Trowa’s also been counting down the days.

“Let’s go back to shore, the boat’s too unstable for what I have in mind.” Even without seeing Quatre’s face, Trowa knows what kind of expression he must be wearing. Sweet, a little mischievous, entirely set on his mind. But Quatre’s determination was one of his better features.

—

Mr. Barton, unlike the foster family before him and the orphanage before them, didn’t let Trowa take showers or baths without supervision. The tub was large, far too large for a boy, he’d say. It wasn’t a lie, entirely. The bath tub was big enough to be a small pool. The bathroom could have been a one bedroom apartment, for its size.

At first Mr. Barton had sat on the tub edge. He read books, or he talked to Trowa. It was usually about how he was a good person, how he looked after kids like Trowa who deserved a second chance. This can be your forever home, he’d say.

But like the thumbs in Trowa’s mouth it became a touch at his knee, on his inner thigh. Then whenever Trowa wanted to wash he had to ask permission and wait for Mr. Barton to join him in the water.

“You never call me father,” Mr. Barton commented. He liked it best when Trowa sat in his lap.

“Do you want me to?” Trowa asked.

“I want you to want to, son.” Mr. Barton said.

—

Trowa didn’t go on international orchestra with Quatre, but two years later they decided to go to college together. He’s almost eighteen. Quatre is only a few months older than him and they both received good offers from some overlapping schools.

It’s been hard for Quatre. Trowa’s been his penpal, on paper because the phone isn’t something he’s allowed to use. Sometimes he calls Quatre on a payphone down the street but over time it’s been disconnected more and more. The rise of cellphones and all of that.

He’s tried to be there, in the way he can be, because Quatre’s father threatened to disown him and Quatre says he loves his father and doesn’t want to break his heart. Trowa doesn’t really get it and Quatre says again — you’re lucky.

In a way, Trowa thinks, he might be, because he knows what he should say to get Mr. Barton to agree to let him go to music school. All he has to do is roll over, in the bed he shares with his adoptive father and say, “Father, may I please go to conservatory?”


	2. Chapter 2

He shouldn’t have called. The phone felt like a traitorous weight in his hand.

“Hello? Is anyone there?” Quatre’s voice said. Trowa could imagine the expression, a little puzzled but too polite to show his annoyance at being bothered. “Hello?”

He could answer back, say hello, Quatre probably deserved that.

“Is this a prank call?” And then, much softer, “Trowa?”

He hung up.

—

It wasn’t really difficult to become roommates. In fact, they could even enter each other’s names on the acceptance form. It wasn’t guaranteed. Quatre had written in his letter, _I put down your name! And then entered traits that remind me of you in the preferred roommate section._ Trowa had, honestly, left his blank.

“I can’t believe they didn’t put us together,” Quatre says with a bit of a pout, but it’s not too serious because he adds, “I have a single, it’s only second floor, you could come in through the window.”

Trowa can’t help but to quirk a smile. He wouldn’t mind that, even if the idea of seeing Quatre every day, every hour, had seemed like too much.

“There are a lot of incoming freshmen.” Trowa nods as he speaks and flicks the orientation book open. It has a list of activities they could be doing, instead of sprawling in the grass and doing nothing. “Want to do something?”

“I do want to do something, but we should probably get dinner eventually.” The dining hall closed at six.

Trowa turns, so he can look at Quatre. They’re holding hands, both still dressed for summer even if Quatre hasn’t tanned at all. Maybe he doesn’t tan. Trowa tanned over the summer, he also gained muscle. There hadn’t been any point to going back to music camp, so instead he’d gone hiking. Outdoors adventuring. Mr. Barton had said — you’ll look very handsome, when you return.

“After dinner, then,” Trowa smirks in a way that he only does for Quatre. He wasn’t quite sure about the expression first, but it always seemed to reflect in Quatre’s eyes in a way that made him feel validated.

“Let’s eat now, then,” Quatre is eager. He stands and then offers his hand to Trowa. Trowa doesn’t take it, instead he just sits up without using his hands, showing off his much improved core strength. The hungry glint in Quatre’s eyes tells him it was well worth the effort.

—

They had been happy. Trowa remembered at least that much. College seemed like such a long time ago, even if it was only two years since he dropped out. He would have graduated last May. And, it had only been one year since he’d written Quatre that latter.

_I don’t think I can do this anymore. I’m sorry for having wasted your time. The summer flings were good, but there’s nothing left here for me._

It hadn’t been a lie, entirely.

Trowa put the kettle on and went downstairs to grab another box. If he was efficient he could finish cleaning the whole house before dinner time. It would be a full day of work but he would rather be done and gone as fast as possible.

It was funny. This was the home he grew up in but there wasn’t any memorabilia. No baby pictures, not awards my child won at school. Mr. Barton had kept a private album, but Trowa hadn’t — yet — touched his father’s most personal items.

The kettle announced itself and he grabbed a tin of old, stale, instant coffee. It would take him a week to rid himself of the bitter taste, but it would be worth it.

—

Trowa’s roommate was annoying, but he didn’t mind. There was a frenetic nervous energy to the other student, he was constantly babbling about school or peers or the future in a way that told Trowa that his roommate cared about the future a great deal.

It really just made it easier for Trowa to make an excuse, leave, and scale up the side of the dorm building next to his to find Quatre’s window and knock on it.

“Trowa, I didn’t think you’d take me up on my offer.”

“I couldn’t stay away,” Trowa smiles and climbs in. Quatre’s room is perfect. Nothing is out of place. It looks like a college dorm room out of a magazine. “You don’t mind?”

“Of course not, here let me — “ Quatre fidgets, shifts some things around, sits on the bed. “The beginning of the semester has been busy, huh?”

“A little, classes aren’t bad yet though.”

“Speak for yourself, composing is _awful_.” Quatre pulls a face, shifts over a bit on his bed and tilts his head, inviting. Trowa feels like he should take off his shoes, but he doesn’t, and he joins Quatre, sitting just close enough that they’re barely touching thighs.

“I didn’t think I’d end up here,” Trowa muses. “College, music, with you.”

Quatre laughs. It’s a nice sound. “I always knew I’d go to college, but without you I don’t think I would have had the courage for music performance. Thank you, Trowa.”

He should probably say _you’re welcome_ , but instead he turns to catch Quatre’s lips in a kiss.

—

Trowa wouldn’t pay for a funeral. He refused, but it wasn’t as if there had been that many people to mourn Mr. Barton’s passing. He informed the old man’s business partners in a formal letter. He put the affairs of stocks and money in order. He put the house on the market even before he cleared it of its things.

The first night after his father died he slept in the old bed — the one he had used up until he had turned nineteen, gone to college and then come home and refused to use again — and it had felt claustrophobic. His stomach rebelled and his brain played tricks on him. It told him that the old man was still waiting to get expelled from the mattress, from Trowa’s bones, from the corners of his mind that associated things with him. Sundays were crosswords. Evening air smelled like musk and bourbon and the lingering hint of the earthy smell of clay poker chips.

He fasted and hoped it would give him clarity. Breakfast oddly, reminded him of brunch with Quatre. They had made eggs and eaten frozen grapes and Quatre had complained about his father and Trowa thought that they might actually make it.

—

Trowa’s classmates have all figured out that he and Quatre are dating. It’s not a big deal to him, there’s a few who probably think it’s gross and a few who are far too into the idea. Fetishists. In the end though, it isn’t any of their business.

He lingers at Quatre’s composing class door, waits for the clock hands to align on the twelve and for Quatre to step into the hall.

“Hi,” Trowa says, falls in step with him.

“You waited for me,” Quatre grins. “But I guess it’s not so hard when you don’t have morning classes, hm?”

“I could have slept in,” he points out, crowds Quatre back against the small dip in the wall near the water fountain. “But then I would have missed our lunch date.”

“And today is mystery meat, just like every other day,” Quatre snorts, drops his book bag to the ground and loops his arms around Trowa’s shoulders. Trowa has to bend, just a little, to accommodate but he’s becoming far more practiced at it as time goes on.

“Hm, is that so?” 

“Unless you were referring to some other cafeteria. . .”

“Delivery,” Trowa murmurs. They kiss. They press closer together. “Already called it in, we have fifteen minutes to get back to your dorm.”

“What’s the occasion?” Quatre laughs, but his lips are still close to Trowa’s face and even his sour morning breath seems delightful.

“This is the same date as that dance.”

“No! You’re kidding!” Quatre pulls back enough, trying to figure out if Trowa is. “How did you remember? I mean — of course I remember the dance but — “

“I usually keep track of who I suck off, Quatre,” Trowa shrugs. “Let’s head over, maybe we can recreate it and it will jog your memory.”

“You are _awful_ , Trowa Barton!” Quatre shoves at him, and then they link arms and head towards his dorm. They both have afternoon classes, but not for a few more hours.

—

“I don’t care, burn it.”

“Mr. Barton — “

“That’s not my name. That — I’m just Trowa.”

“Trowa, then. This is difficult for us all, the passing of a parent — “

Laughter. He was almost hysteric. “No.”

“It isn’t easy, to have a parent die on you.”

“Burn the whole house.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“Thank you for the business card, but I won’t be needing it.”

“Many people find a counselor useful in grief, especially when they’ve been the sole caretaker of their parent. It’s not unusual to be angry at first, betrayed that the person you thought you could rely on has fallen ill and then died. You don’t need to be alone for this.”

“Thank you for your concern, will that be all? I have a funeral to arrange.”

—

Trowa enters the housing lottery with Quatre, this year, and they manage to swing a suite. It’s even in the new dorms and Quatre immediately shoves the two beds together. Trowa can’t help but be somewhat overwhelmed by Quatre’s eagerness.

“Unless you don’t want to?” Quatre asks, but then he flops back onto the joined beds and spreads his arms and legs. “Look at all this room. We won’t be having any more of _those_ accidents.” Like the time in Trowa’s room where, because the bed was jammed up against the wall, Quatre hit his head on the wall during sex. Or the time in Quatre’s room where, because the bed wasn’t touching any walls, they had fallen off.

“I like it,” Trowa affirms.

The room, in the end, screams Quatre. Trowa only has a few things to put up. His small collection of books, clothes, toiletries, an old poster of _The Memphis Bell_ and his school things — texts, sheet music, flute and piccolo.

Quatre has brought a larger collection of books. He has a computer. He has CDs, posters of faraway places and some of Broadway shows. He keeps a collection of notebooks, pencils, pens, watercolors and The Trunk where he keeps all of his business papers and study notes for his father’s company.

“Then come over here and test it out with me, silly.”

Trowa kicks off his shoes and joins Quatre on the bed. He holds him, smells his hair and revels in how nicely they fit together.

“This is perfect.” Quatre says.

—

He had repeated to himself, over and over, that it wasn’t Mr. Barton’s fault. It wasn’t Mr. Barton’s fault that Trowa was kneeling in the bathroom scrubbing out another emesis bin. That there was a pile of soiled sheets that he would have to clean next. That after that he would have to get another one of those protein shakes out of the refrigerator and coax it, sip by sip into Mr. Barton’s mouth.

He didn’t have the money for a nurse and Mr. Barton wouldn’t pay for one. Trowa was good enough, he’d said, clasped Trowa’s hand in a shaky way that sent to his toes. Some part of him had been elated. And then he had felt sick. Who wanted their father to die. Then foolish. He wasn’t a kid anymore, he knew exactly what kind of relationship they had.

The bathroom was a sanctuary. Even if it always smelled like shit and disinfectant it was quiet and the monotonous work of cleaning calmed his bitterness. Hospice did give Mr. Barton a sponge bath once a week, so he never laid foot on the mint green tiles, not anymore. The little moments of solace made the times when Mr. Barton asked him for comfort — a dying man’s last wish — easier to bear.

—

“I’m sorry,” he couldn’t meet Quatre’s eyes. Trowa had never been the nervous type, but with Quatre looking at him like that it was too much to deal with. There were a million other thoughts settling around his shoulders and neck, choking him. “I’m — I don’t think it would be wise to carry on a long distance relationship. I’m going to be pretty busy.”

“I want to be there for you,” Quatre insists. “I could take a year off and — “

“Quatre. If you take a year off your father will probably try to convince you to do business instead,” Trowa should feel bad, for digging up Quatre’s weakest point, but he needs it to lever Quatre off. Away. “My — father’s dying. It’s already wearing on me.”

“I’m so sorry. I just feel like I’m abandoning you, Trowa.”

“You’re not. You’ve done more than enough for me.”

“Promise to write when you can. I’ll write you every week. When — I don’t mean to look forward to something so awful but — when it’s over with, will you come back?”

“I’ll try. I’m sorry too, Quatre, this is just hard for me.”

It isn’t, not really. Instead of wearing him down or exhausting him Trowa just feels hollow. Every minute steals another part of his body from him. A sliver of kidney, a piece of his lungs, soon there will be nothing left and he’ll just be a shell.

That’s fine, he’ll be going home soon.

“I love you.”

—

“You hear me, boy? I always cared.” Mr. Barton said.

Trowa didn’t know how to respond. He shrugged. He looked out the window. He listened to the wheezing breath of his father. He hadn’t wanted to come home, but summer break was too long to spend and school and even though Quatre had invited him on a trip it had felt too much like being a paid companion.

And the phone call had said: Your father is dying, you should be here with him.

“I’ve _always_ loved you.” Mr. Barton said.

“I know.” Trowa replied, dispassionately. “I’ve been lucky.”

The room smelled like ammonia and linen. He knew though, looking at Mr. Barton who had only just begun to look frail, it would be so much longer until the old man finally let go of him.


End file.
